The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes
by mystrac
Summary: Post Reichenbach. After Sherlock Dies, John decides that he needs to prove Sherlock wasn't a fraud.
1. Chapter 1

_**Major Spoilers for season 2. If you haven't watched it, be warned. Reviews are love!**_

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"You told me once that you weren't a hero… um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"

I sighed and choked back the tears that had been falling unheeded from my eyes. I needed to be strong for Mrs. Hudson, now. My tears wouldn't help anyone. I placed my hand on the grave one last time and turned around to walk to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me, pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, wiped the tears from my face and blew my nose gustily. The cab ride home wasn't going be easy.

No, it wasn't going to be easy at all.

When I reached her, Mrs. Hudson wrapped her thin arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I realized that we must look like mother and son to anyone watching. That didn't matter. In fact, it was right. She'd been a mother to Sherlock and me these past two years.

As we started toward the road I noticed someone standing by a grave near the fence. I felt myself go rigid. _It couldn't be… No, it was just a man wearing a long coat with dark hair._ _Am I going to be seeing Sherlock's ghost everywhere I look?_

When we got home, I sat at the table in Mrs. Hudson's small kitchen. There was no way that I could have up to the empty flat at that moment, knowing he wouldn't be there.

Mrs. Hudson retrieved a bottle of scotch from the top of the refrigerator and three glasses from her cupboard. She placed the glasses firmly on the table and filled them.

"Who's the third glass for?" I asked.

"It's for Sherlock. It's traditional to pour a glass for our lost loved one at the wake. Sherlock never got a proper wake, so it's going to have to be just you and me," she explained as she sat across from me. She pushed a glass to me, took one for herself, and placed the third in front of the seat where Sherlock had so often sat.

We talked and drank and cried late into the night. Mrs. Hudson offered me her couch, but I needed to be where Sherlock had so often been. As I stumbled up the stairs, I decided that I needed to make a blog post. I left it untitled, and typed out the shortest and most truthful post that I had ever written. "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." I disabled the comments and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning with a hangover bad enough to make me consider calling in sick to work. I knew that I had to keep moving on, though. Sherlock would have wanted me to go on. I ate a large breakfast and drank several cups of coffee before leaving for work. My case load was light; Sara was trying to be easy on me because of my loss. She was a good woman, Sara. The day seemed to drag on and go quickly. When five 'o'clock rolled around I was surprised. I knew that Mrs. Hudson would have cooked for me, but I picked up some Chinese on the way home. On a whim I stopped by the market and bought a bottle of whisky. _Who cares if Chinese and whisky don't go together, I need a drink._ When I got home I ate and watched the telly for a couple of hours. At about eight I realized that my bottle was empty and went to bed.

This was the pattern of my life for the next couple of weeks. I knew that it wasn't healthy, that I was gaining weight and was well on my way to becoming an alcoholic, but I didn't care. My best friend, the only real friend I ever had, the best man I had ever known, was gone. Who was to care if I drank myself to death, anyways?

One night, after drinking most of a bottle, I decided that I wanted to see what people were saying about Sherlock. I pulled my computer to me and ran a search for "Sherlock Holmes." I was aghast at what I read.

"I always knew he was a fake," said one blog.

"That fucker deserved what came to him," said another.

"tHat basterd kiled Richard Brook, im glad hes dead!"

I felt myself get very angry. No one, not one single person, believed in Sherlock. I considered throwing my computer across the room, but thought better of it. I was going to need my computer to help me prove the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

_*Thank you to everyone who's reading. Please, I love reviews, even bad ones.*_

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The next morning, Saturday, I thought long and hard about who could help me. Who would still be loyal to Sherlock?

Molly would help, for sure. She'd worked alongside Sherlock for years, she knew his genius. Also, she was half in love with him; surely she'd want to help.

Lestrade would want to help. He'd probably be offended if I didn't ask. He'd seen Sherlock in action, there was no way he believed Moriarty's lies.

Mycroft loved Sherlock, even if he never admitted it. He'd shown that when he asked me to spy on Sherlock for him. Concern like that could stem only from love. He was Sherlock's older brother; he knew that Sherlock was a good man.

After some thought, I decided I needed Mrs. Hudson. She would hold us all together far better than I could ever hope to.

I made calls to everyone inviting them over to dinner, without telling them why. Everyone agreed to be at the flat at eight. Mrs. Hudson said that she would cook something for us, knowing how dismal I am in a kitchen. I ran out for drinks, but decided that I would _not_ be drinking. I'd been doing far too much of that lately. It was time to be done with wallowing in self-pity. That's not what Sherlock deserved.

On a whim, I decided to contact one more person. Yes she was a criminal and had nearly torn him apart when she faked her death, but she loved Sherlock the same as the rest of us. I didn't have her phone number or her email address, so I logged into my infrequently used twitter account to direct message her. _"I could use your help on something. It's for Sherlock."_

I sent it off, hoping it would be enough. God only knew what Irene was up to, but having someone in the criminal world to help would be useful. It would be good to see her face again, too.

I spent most of the day putting the flat in order. I'd let it become filthy over the past couple of weeks. Mrs. Hudson had tried to clean up, but stopped when I yelled at her for trying to clean Sherlock's coffee cup. I checked twitter regularly to see if Irene had responded growing more and more frustrated. With as many followers as she had, you'd think that she would log in more often, just to keep them happy.

Finally, at about five, I got a reply. _"I'm sorry, I'm busy with something. Besides, he's dead, there's nothing we can do for him. xOxO."_

Busy? How could the woman who so obviously loved Sherlock be too busy to do something for Sherlock? She didn't understand. _"I want to clear his name; I could really use your help. Please."_

I got my reply quickly this time. _"What does it matter, John? He's gone. I don't have time for this, and I'm not even sure that I believe he wasn't a fraud anyway."_

I couldn't believe what I had just read. I started to reply several times, but decided against it. If the woman wasn't willing to see reason, I wasn't going to be able to convince her over twitter.

Lestrade arrived first, at about 7:15. "I hope you don't mind my getting here early, I came straight from the station. What's all of this about, then?" He asked as I took his coat.

"I'd rather not say until everyone is here, if that's alright, Greg," I said. He nodded and went into the kitchen to help with the last minute preparations. I think that he could tell that I was keyed up and gave me space to deal with it. I was very grateful for that.

Molly and Mycroft arrived at practically the same time, with Mycroft pulling up just as I was letting Molly in. They both asked what was going on and I asked them to wait until we were all seated at dinner. They both looked a little confused but agreed.

Mrs. Hudson's delicious meal of beef stew and homemade French bread was served on the dining table in our- my flat at precisely eight 'o'clock. I drank tea while everyone else sipped a nice French merlot. As we dug in, Molly asked the question at hand.

"So, John, it's nice getting to hang out with everyone and all, but on the phone it sounded like you wanted to talk to us about something important. What's up?" Only Molly could have asked such a loaded question in such a simple way.

"Um… You see, I got this idea last night. I was browsing the internet and I realized something that needs to be done for Sherlock," I started, looking around the table. "I don't really have a plan yet, but I think that you all could help me. I want for us to clear Sherlock's name."

The reaction was instantaneous. Mrs. Hudson squeaked and grinned. Lestrade smiled and looked thoughtful. Mycroft just… stopped in that way that means he is deep in thought. Molly, however, looked sad.

"I… I don't think that I can help," Molly said quietly. Everyone stared at her. If anyone at the table was a guarantee to help, it was her. She looked straight at Greg and said "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why not?" Greg was the one to ask the question, probably because he was the one Molly was looking at so intently.

"You all know how I felt about him. How I feel about him," Molly said. "Sherlock was a great man, there's no way he was a fraud, but I need to get over him. I won't be able to do that if I'm spending all of my time thinking about him. There's no way I could help and not get obsessed." Molly looked at me for the first time. "I'm sorry, John, I can't."

Everyone was quiet for a few minutes, no one ate. Eventually, I had to say it. "It's okay Molly. If you change your mind, I'm sure we could always use your help." Molly nodded and looked at her plate. I took a deep breath and continued "Why don't we finish dinner before we get down to business, then. Mrs. Hudson worked too hard on this meal for us to let it go to waste."

Everyone dug in to the excellent meal, but no one talked. When all of the food was gone, Molly stood up to leave. Lestrade rose and offered to walk her to the door. Mycroft watched them walk down the stairs with a glint in his eye. A few minutes later, Greg walked back into the flat and poured himself another glass of wine.

"Well, why don't we get down to planning?" I asked the room in general. We settled back down at the table to get to the serious business of talking.


	3. Chapter 3

_*Thank you so much to everyone who is reading. I need to get some sleep, so this is the last chapter for now. I'll be sure to put more up tomorrow. Please review, I want to know what you guys think. This should be the shortest chapter in the story, sorry it's not longer. _

_Super special thanks to silky0670 and Rebecca Cumberbatch for adding the story to their alerts!*_

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Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and I settled in at my kitchen table to make our plans to clear the name of Sherlock Holmes. I looked around the table and saw looks of excitement on their faces. Greg looked a little sad, but that was probably because of Molly leaving. The two of them had been friends for a long time, and it's difficult to see a friend hurting.

"Well," Mycroft started, "does anyone have any sort of plan, or do we only have the goal in mind?" he asked. Then, looking straight at me, "This isn't going to be easy."

"I know it's not going to be easy," I said. "I don't have a solid plan in mind, but I do have some ideas. I figured we could brainstorm from there."

"What are those ideas, then?" asked Greg, "Because our best hope to get proof just walked out your front door."

"I know," I sighed, "She could have proved that he is good at the science, at least. Still we should be able to do some good. Greg, I'll start with you, then." He nodded at me. "I figured that you'd be able to go through old police reports, pull up proof that Sherlock wasn't a criminal mastermind. You could look into cases that were crimes of passion, especially. There's no way that a criminal mastermind can plan a crime of passion.

"You're the best connected of us, Mycroft. I thought you might be able to pull strings and dig for proof that Moriarty was real." Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. "No, please let me finish first. I've been drinking too much the past two weeks, and I worked pretty damn hard on this speech today, I want to get it right." Mycroft closed his mouth and nodded.

"I'm not as connected as either of you. I thought, before Molly said no, that I would do a lot of legwork. Talking to old clients and getting the homeless network to put out feelers. Who knows what they could turn up? With her gone, I'm the one best equipped to do what I had planned on asking her to do, so I'll be spending time at St. Bart's trying to prove Sherlock's science was real, rather than show. I don't know how successful I'll be, I'm not the scientist that Molly is.

"Mrs. Hudson, you have a gift for coordinating people. With the three of us going around collecting evidence, I thought that you could make sure that we all know what's going on. Also, if a member of the homeless network has information that they want to share, they could come by the house to give it. You would be here to collect those messages. What do you all think?"

All three of them looked thoughtful for a moment. Mycroft spoke up first. "John, you're not a wealthy man. There's no way you'd be able to afford the bribes to get the homeless network working on something. I'll finance this little project of ours."

I looked at Mycroft for a long moment before nodding. "Anyone else?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke up. "I have an idea…

We spoke late into the night, formulating plans. We all had our parts to play and were going to do our damndest to clear the name of Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

_*Thank you and love to everyone who's reading.*_

Over the next few weeks my life formed a new pattern. I would go to work, meet with old clients over lunch, go back to work, head over to St. Bart's and try to replicate experiments from Sherlock's notes, meet with members of the Baker Street Irregulars, then go to the flat and try to piece things together. I didn't have time to eat, and I was lucky if I got two hours sleep a night. I had never understood how Sherlock could go for so long without food or sleep, but now I got it. If you just keep going, eating and sleeping become unnecessary.

I saw Molly at the lab, occasionally. She seemed to be doing a little better, but wasn't willing to talk about Sherlock at all. She probably didn't want to think about him. I wasn't surprised when I walked by a restaurant and saw her and Greg together. I just hoped that she wasn't transferring her feelings for Sherlock to him, or else they would both have their harts broken. I didn't say anything, though. It really wasn't any of my business.

I didn't make much progress at St. Bart's. With his memory, Sherlock didn't do much in the way of taking notes. I really could have used Molly's help to decipher what notes he did take, but I knew better than to ask her. It would be better to let her come around in her own time.

Lestrade was slowly making his way through old case files. Most of the cases that Sherlock had helped him on were crimes that had been methodically planned out. Greg was a good enough officer to have figured out impulsive crimes on his own, most of the time. He kept looking, though.

The one place we did have some luck from was the homeless network. They had been hearing Moriarty's name for years. It seems that he had been a legend, a bogyman, among petty criminals across London.

One member of the homeless network told me the advice he'd been given when he was learning to pick pockets. "You gotta be smart, they told me. If you do somethin' that gets in Moriarty's way yous gonna find yourself at the bottom of the Thames, they told me. Don' go after a mark that could be one of his people, it's not safe." He'd been given this advice about a year previously. It was in the time when Moriarty claimed he was being paid by Sherlock, but it takes longer than a year and a half to get to be that kind of legend. It wasn't proof, but it was a start.

I was put into contact with a member of Moriarty's network. He was a forger and had worked for Moriarty for about two years, providing documents to people who needed to get out of the country, fast.

"I was brought on by my mate, Allen," He said. "He'd been working for Jim for a while, I don't really know how long, but it was a while."

"Can you put me in contact with Allen?" I asked.

"Nah, sorry, he went missing about a month ago. Whoever was leading that crime network, whether it was your friend Sherlock or Moriarty, when they died the whole thing started to fall apart. I've never seen anything like it. A bunch of people turned up dead or missing, 'specially the folks who've been around for a long time."

Nothing concrete ever seemed to turn up. Mycroft's money ran through my hands as though it were water, bribing members of the homeless network to give me tiny tidbits of information that never seemed to amount to anything.

Mrs. Hudson nagged at me frequently. "Dear, you need to get some sleep. Let the case rest for one night," "You're back to your old weight; it's not good to let your weight bounce around like this. Try to eat more often." I tried to take her advice, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't afford to lose the time that sleep would take. Eating just made me tired. I could finally understand why Sherlock always said that he couldn't spend the energy to digest when he was on a case. With the higher-ups from Moriarty's network disappearing and dyeing right and left, time was of the essence if I wanted to get proof that he was real.

I carried on and hoped that something would come up.


	5. Chapter 5

Even though almost no information was coming in, I couldn't pull myself away from the case. Sleep became frustrating for me. I knew that if I were to fall asleep I would miss something vital. I found myself taking caffeine pills several times a day to ward off my exhaustion.

_I paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. I looked up at St. Bart's to see something horrifying. There was a figure standing at the edge of the roof. It was Sherlock. He seemed to look straight at me. I could hear his voice, even though he was so far away. "I'm sorry, John. Goodbye." _

_I held my breath and watched him step off of the roof. Time seemed to slow. It looked almost as though he were running, not falling. After what seemed like hours, Sherlock hit the ground and shattered to a million pieces like a wineglass dropped on the floor._

_I ran to him. I tried to gather the pieces together. If I could just put the pieces back together he wouldn't be dead. Each piece I touched turned to dust and blew away._

I woke with a start. Every time I slept, the dream hounded me. For obvious reasons, I endeavored to sleep as rarely as possible.

The sounds of the city seemed too loud. When had Westminster turned the sound up? It seemed like the loudest thing I used to hear on an evening was a car backfiring or a far-off siren. Now it seemed like the married ones across the street were always shouting over the television, as the deli had their music turned to the loudest volume, like there were always loud drunks walking the streets. Had it always been so loud or had something changed? Maybe I had changed.

Whatever the reason for the noise, I needed to drown it out. The sound of the telly became a constant in the flat.

Molly came by one evening. I was very excited to see her at the flat. Maybe she had gotten over Sherlock enough to be willing to help me. I resolved myself to let her be the one to bring it up.

"How are you doing, John?" She asked as she sat in Sherlock's chair. I handed her a cup of tea and sat in my chair before answering.

"I'm well," I said, "considering, that is. And you?"

"I'm doing okay. Greg has been helping me sort through things. If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look well. I've never seen you so thin."

"Well, the case is wearing on me. I've been working extra hours at the clinic and there never seems to be enough hours in the day to get everything done. I suppose that I've been skipping meals in my distraction." It wasn't precisely a lie, but I felt guilty for being less than honest with her.

"Well, you could take a couple of days off from the case to catch up on sleep and eat three square every da. All of the trails are probably already cold, it wouldn't hurt anything."

"Maybe I will," I said. That was a boldfaced lie, and we both knew it.

"How is the case going, by the way?" Molly asked, letting my lie slip past. "Are you any closer to clearing Sherlock's name?"

"I've turned up a few things on Moriarty, but not enough to turn public opinion. It seems like most of the upper members of his organization have either turned up dead or gone missing."

"You think that they're on the run?" she asked.

"I think someone is tearing apart his organization, to tell the truth. I can't be the only one who'd like to see them gone. There's probably a rival pulling apart the competition."

"I see," she said. "Well, I should be going. I need to be in the lab early tomorrow."

"Wait. I thought… When you showed up here unexpected, I thought that you might have come to tell me you're ready to help."

Molly's face fell. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready. Goodnight, John."

It hurt when Molly left, but I understood. I knew that my obsession wasn't healthy, she just didn't want to be drawn into it the way that I was.

I decided to take her advice, in a way. I called Henry Knight and asked if I could come down to Baskervilles to visit for the weekend.


	6. Chapter 6

_*Thank you, everyone, for reading. I can't believe how many hits this story has gotten. I'm extremely flattered. I'll be earning the rating in the next chapter. Please, review!*_

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I arrived in Baskervilles at about 2:00p.m on Saturday, and was pleasantly surprised to see Henry Knight waiting for me at the station. We exchanged pleasantries as we drove to his house, but didn't get down to business until we were sitting in his pleasantly furnished living room sipping truly excellent tea.

"So, Henry," I began, "I asked to come visit you for a reason. Well, a reason other than hanging out with a friend, that is."

"It's not about H.O.U.N.D., is it?" he asked. "It's just, I know now that there was no hound. I've been working with my new therapist, and I pretty much remember the truth now."

"Well, it is about that case, a bit, yes. I'm glad that you're sorting through things, but I actually wanted to ask you what you think of Sherlock."

"You mean, do I believe the papers?"

"A bit, yeah."

"No way. Sherlock and I were about the same age. There's no way he could have been a criminal mastermind at age nine. Besides, we know who killed my father."

I perked up. This was the first time that I had come across someone from one of our more public cases who believed in Sherlock.

"That's great!" I exclaimed. "You see, I'm trying to pull together proof that Sherlock was real, to clear his name. Would you be willing to say so to the media when I have everything ready?"

Henry looked very excited. "Of course! I don't know if anything could make me happier." He beamed at me, obviously glad to be able to do some good for his deceased friend.

After dinner, Henry drove me into the village. I planned on spending some time at the pub, getting some much needed rest, and leaving for London in the morning.

Sitting in the comfortable arm chair in front of the fire brought back memories. Sherlock and I had sat in that exact place a year before, and Sherlock had experienced fear for the first time. It was almost terrifying to think that he had lived to his mid-thirties without ever being truly afraid. I realized that maybe I hadn't known Sherlock as well as I thought I had.

Breaking my train of thought, a man sat down in the chair opposite me. He was in his forties with short blonde hair going white at the temples. His suit was tailored, but it looked as though he had lost about two stone since buying it. I smiled a bit to myself, realizing I was examining him a bit like Sherlock would have, but without the wondrous deductions he would have made.

"Dr. Watson is it?" asked the man. I sighed and nodded. If he were a reporter I would just get up and walk away, but he looked concerned, rather than vicious. "I'm Dr. Maher, Henry's new psychiatrist."

I was mildly surprised that Henry's shrink had joined me. "Hello, Dr. Maher, nice to meet you." I said.

"Henry told me you would be coming into town this weekend. Did you two have a pleasant visit?"

"Oh, yes. Henry seems to be doing much better, probably thanks to you."

"He is doing much better. He's been recovering far more quickly than I would have thought possible."

"That's good then, isn't it?"

"Yes. Look, I'll be frank with you; I came here tonight because I thought you would probably be in the pub. I need to ask you why you came to visit after a year of no contact. Henry had a really rough time when Sherlock Holmes died. I fear that seeing you could make him relapse."

"To be honest, Dr. Maher, I came here to ask for Henry's help."

"What with?" he asked.

"I'm trying to clear Sherlock's name. I asked Henry if he was willing to speak to the media when the time comes."

"Did he say yes?"

"He did."

"Then I have some bad news for you. No one is going to believe him."

"And why not?" I asked.

"Everyone knows that he was wrong about that hound. Around here, he's a bit of a joke. If Henry Knight were to say that the sky was blue, folks would walk outside to check before they believed him. Henry's word will only hurt you." Dr. Maher stood up and held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. It was very nice to meet you."

I shook his hand and he walked away. After a sleepless night I limped to the station dejectedly.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey, everyone! Sorry about my erratic posting schedule, and leaving you guys hanging. I promise to be back on a regular schedule of a chapter every day or two._

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When I got home from Baskerville I decided to call Lestrade and Mycroft to tell them the news. They wouldn't be happy about it, that I knew. They both agreed to come over the next night. Mrs. Hudson would be there, too.

Greg and Mycroft arrived within minutes of each other. We all sat in my sitting room. There would be no nice dinner this time around.

"I've asked you here," I began, "to give you some bad news. I've run out of leads and ideas. I'm not good enough in a lab to prove the science."

"Are you giving up?" asked Mycroft coldly, fiddling with his umbrella.

"No, but I don't know where to go with this. I observed Sherlock for a year and a half, I thought that I understood his methods well enough to imitate them. Every step of the way, I've failed. I'm not going to give up, but I'm not going to ask you to help anymore." I looked straight at Greg. "I'm not going to ask you to waste your time on this any longer."

The room had grown very still as I spoke. The silence grew very pregnant. Finally, Greg nodded and stood up. "I'm not giving up. I'll let you know if I find anything," he said and left.

"I forgive you, you know. This should have never been on your shoulders. Let me know if you change your mind," Mycroft said quietly as he walked out the door, leaving Mrs. Hudson and I alone.

Mrs. Hudson and I sat in silence for several minutes. I could tell that she was holding back the tears, that she wanted to go but didn't want to leave me, too.

"Just go," I said, refusing to look at her. She almost bolted from the room with a sob. _Good job, John,_ I thought,_ scare away the last person supporting you._

The next evening, I decided to go to Sherlock's grave. I hadn't been back since the day of his funeral, it hadn't seemed right, somehow, while I was working to clear his name.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have known that I couldn't do it. I should have known that there would be no way for me to unravel Moriarty's lies, without you.

"Dammit, Sherlock, why did you have to do it? Why did you give up? We could have done this, together."

I waited for a long time, as though expect a reply that I knew would never come. I walked home, feeling dejected.

* * *

I couldn't sleep. It's different, having insomnia, when you don't want to be alone with your own thoughts. It's a unique pain, one that I had never felt before.

Food made me sick. I could never get more than a few bites down before a wave of nausea hit and I had to run to the loo to vomit. After a few days, I stopped feeling hungry. In a way, it was a relief.

I went to Sherlock's grave, every evening after I finished work at the clinic. I would stay until it was dark enough that I could no longer read his name on his gravestone. I spoke to him for hours, telling him things I would have never told him before. Things he had probably known all along.

Sara felt sorry for me. At the clinic, my caseload was lightened until I was basically only seeing patients with a runny nose or who wanted the latest influenza vaccination. She was being very patient with me, but I could tell it was wearing thin.

* * *

One Saturday, about two weeks after I first went back to Sherlock's grave, a letter came in the post. I opened it, curiously, wondering who would write me an actual letter.

_Dr. Watson,_

_ I have recently heard from my friend Henry Knight that you're trying to clear Sherlock Holmes' name. That you're trying to prove Richard Brook wasn't real, that Moriarty was real. I can't believe that you could do something so horrible to Henry. He's been through so much, why do you feel the need to torture him with more lies? Wasn't that business with H.O.U.N.D. and his father bad enough? I thought better of you. I thought that you had been drawn in by the lies. I felt sorry for you._

_ Richard Brook was no lie. I own old VHS copies of his show that I've had for years. Your whole argument falls apart and one piece of evidence. Give up! If you can't stop torturing people like poor Henry, maybe you should just take the cowards way out, like your 'friend' Sherlock Holmes._

I could think of little but that letter all day. I went to Sherlock's grave for several hours. For once, I didn't say anything. My silence seemed oddly companionable. Whilst I was there, I came to a decision. "Goodbye, Sherlock," I said as I stood. "I won't be coming back."

I stopped by Angelo's on the way home. It seemed oddly fitting to eat mushroom ravioli, the same as I had my first meal with Sherlock.

When I got home I put on one of Sherlock's records at random Rachmaninoff, good, that was always his favorite. I turned up the volume as loud as it would go and opened the windows wide, to share the music with the city.

I walked up to my bedroom, pulled my revolver from by bedside table, and checked the clip to make sure it was loaded. I went back to the sitting room and stood by the open window. I looked out at the city one last time.

My mind was oddly clear as I put the gun to my temple.


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you so much to everyone for reading. I know I left the last chapter on a big cliff hanger, hopefully this one will give you a case of the warm fuzzies._

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There was a pounding at my sitting room door. I dropped the gun to my side and turned around in time to see Mrs. Hudson opening the door.

"John, dear, Molly's here to see you. Why on earth is the music turned so loud?" She walked to the record player, turned the sound down to a reasonable level and turned back to me. "You haven't been shooting holes in my walls, have you? That's one of the few things I don't miss about poor Sherlock. That and thumbs in the crisper drawer."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, feeling rather shocked, as Molly stepped into the room, looking flushed and worried.

"I've come to a decision," Molly said in a rush, "I'm going to help. Greg told me you had basically given up. I can't stand not helping, especially now." She eyed the gun in my hand significantly. "I can prove the science. Would you bring me Sherlock's notebooks in the morning?"

"Uh…" I started.

"Good. I'll see you around eight, then," she said, looking relieved.

Molly ran out of the house, slamming the front door behind her. I looked at the gun in my hand, feeling confused. Two minutes ago I had been ready to put a slug in my head, and now I was filled with hope. Could a person's emotions really flip so quickly? I wondered if Molly had any idea that she had just saved my life.

"Go put that gun away," Mrs. Hudson scolded. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

"I think I'll just go to bed," I said. It had been a very long day. Rest was sorely needed.

I don't know that I've ever slept as well as I did that night. The next day I took Sherlock's notes to molly at Bart's. A morning had never seemed so beautiful. Lestrade was with Molly when I walked into the lab, whispering in her ear. I almost turned around and walked out. Greg heard me and pulled away from Molly before I could sneak away.

"Good to see you, John." He said as I set the notebooks on a bench.

"Good to see you too, Greg. I was going to give you a call. I'm back in the game."

"Good. You said that you weren't giving up, but you were obviously upset. I was a bit worried for you. I'm sure not going to give up on him any time soon."

"Neither will I. I suppose I was feeling a little down, is all. Molly, here, has brought back my hope."

"Sounds like her. I've got to get over to the yard; all of these criminals turning up dead has been making a lot of work for me. I may give the killer a medal when we finally find him. See you later, Molly, John," he said as he walked across the room.

"See you, Greg," I said. "Hey, could I get a peek at the files on those? I think they might be related."

"I'll see what I can do." Greg walked out the door.

"Sorry I rushed out last night; I'm just not that comfortable around guns." Molly said when the door had swung closed.

"I'm glad you came though. Do you mind if I as you something?"

"Not at all."

"Are you and Greg…?"

A surprised look crossed her face. "Yeah, we are."

"Good. I'll be seeing you, then." I felt awkward, knowing I had broken up their intimate moment. I was glad for them, though.

I went home and sorted through my notes from the last several months. Maybe I would be able to come up with something I had missed before. I resolved to keep working on clearing Sherlock's name no matter what. I texted Mycroft to let him know I was putting the team back together. He responded quickly, "Good, I knew you wouldn't stay despondent for long."

I worked as hard as I could at the clinic, over the next few weeks. Slowly, my cases increased in complexity until things seemed to be back to normal. Sara's eyes lost that pitying look. Greg brought a steady flow of files to me. The more I read the more certain I was that someone was pulling apart the threads of Moriarty's web. I put out feelers, though the homeless network, to try and find whoever was pulling those threads. He may have been a killer, but he had information that I needed.

The holidays came and went. New Year's Eve was hard for me, in particular. Knowing that Sherlock's last year was over hit me in an unexpected way. I sat and watched telly, drinking tea when the New Year arrived.

"To you, Sherlock. The best man I've ever known."


	9. Chapter 9

_Hey everyone! I can't say how happy I am about all of the visitors, hits, and alerts! There are only a few chapters left in the story, and it has been my great pleasure to write them. Please, review, I want to know what you're all thinking!_

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One Wednesday in mid-February, I came home from the clinic to find two homeless men in my sitting room. I recognized one as a member of the Baker Street Irregulars; the other was unfamiliar to me. Rather, he looked very familiar, but wasn't a member of the homeless network. He looked very like Moriarty, just a little broader in the face. It gave me a shock to look into his coal-black eyes.

"Dr. Watson, sir," began the man I knew only as Tiff, "this is Jack. You tol' us all t' look f'r 'nyone who knows 'bout James Moriarty." He stopped, looking hesitantly at his companion.

"My name," Jack said in a hauntingly familiar lilting Irish accent, "my full name, that is, is Jack Moriarty. Jim was my older brother."

I stared at Jack and Tiff for a long moment. It seemed almost unreal that I could come home from work on a normal day only to have proof, conclusive proof, that Moriarty was real dropped in my lap. It took me several tries to find my voice. I pulled a 50 pound note from my wallet and handed it to Tiff. "Thank you, you have no idea what this means to me. You can go, now."

Tiff looked at me steadily. I could tell he was surprised by my dismissal. I usually sit and talk to members of the homeless network for a while whenever they bring me news. After a moment, he nodded to his companion and left the room. I listened to him walk down the stairs and out the front door before turning my attention to Jack Moriarty.

Jack was shorter and broader than his brother, like a reflection slightly warped by a funhouse mirror. On closer inspection, I saw that his eyes weren't the same coal black as his brother, but dark brown. He was painfully thin, as though he hadn't eaten regularly in years, and his lips were dry and cracked. A scraggly beard hung from his cheeks, looking as though it hadn't been groomed in months. His clothes looked as though they had once been of fine quality, but were threadbare, filthy, and hung from his shoulders.

He held his arms across his stomach and hunched his shoulders, as though waiting for the blow to land. His eyes held a spark of intelligence and something I couldn't identify. Sherlock would have known. Then again, if Sherlock were here I probably would have never met this man.

"Would you like a cup of tea, something to eat?" I asked Jack softly. I had a feeling that it would be best if I were gentle with this man.

"Yes, please," he said politely.

As I put on the kettle and set out sandwiches on a tray I reflected on the man in my sitting room. Even among the homeless, it was rare to see someone so poorly off. That, combined with the strange look in his eye, made me think that there must be something wrong with his mind. Given who his brother was Jack had probably been tortured since childhood. I shuddered at the thought of growing up with Jim Moriarty as a brother, it had been bad enough growing up with a bully for a sister. Yes, Jack Moriarty needed my help as badly as I needed his. I could only hope that he would accept it.

When the tea had brewed and the sandwiches laid out, I carried the tray into the sitting room and set it on my coffee table. I took my cup and sat in my chair. Jack looked hesitantly at the food and drink in front of him as though it would go away if he were to reach for it.

"Go ahead," I said, making Jack jump and look at me. "You look like you haven't had a decent meal in ages. We can talk after you've eaten."

Jack looked at me for a long moment before reaching for the food. He tore into it with a speed I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Despite this, he ate neatly and didn't drop a single crumb. Within a minute both sandwiches were gone. He carefully lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip, then sighed with satisfaction as he leaned back on the sofa, a look of contentedness crossing his face.

"So," I started, "you're Jim's brother. Can I ask you why you decided to come forward about it?"

"I hated Jim," Jack stated. "He was a right bastard. You met him, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said lamely. Jack didn't need to hear that his brother had kidnapped me, tried to kill me on multiple occasions, torn my world apart.

"Then you know how he was. When I was a little kid he would do the most horrible things. Nothing that would leave marks, mind, but that seemed to make it worse. Mum and Dad didn't believe me when I told them what happened. They only saw what he showed them, a genius with a large group of friends. They didn't believe that he and those boys tortured cats, shoplifted, and bullied all of the younger kids at school. They said I was crazy, took me to shrinks, had me sectioned. I ran away as soon as I turned seventeen, wasn't going to spend any more time around them than I had to."

I looked at Jack for a long time after he finished speaking, mulling over what he said. He sat and sipped at his tea, watching for my reaction. I could tell he was desperately hoping I would believe him. I did, completely, but that wasn't going to be enough.

"I can't imagine growing up like that. I'm glad that I can't. Unfortunately, you story alone isn't enough to make the public believe."

Jack's face fell, disappointment written across the young mans' face. He set down his nearly empty cup of tea and made to leave.

"Wait-" I almost shouted. He looked at me, tears shining in his eyes. "I said that your story _alone_ isn't enough to make the public believe. They'll say you're just another actor I hired. We can do DNA tests, prove you're related. Get family photos, stuff like that. _I can make this work!_"

Jack's whole body shuddered with relief and the tears spilled over. "They'll really believe me, then?"

"Oh, yes." I glanced at my watched and pulled out my mobile. "Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"Not really. Without me there, my spot has probably been taken by someone else. I can think of somewhere else, though."

"You can stay here tonight. I'll give you some clothes; they'll be a little big, but clean and warm. You can have a shower and a shave if you like, too." At the word 'shower' a look of naked longing crossed Jack's face. How unlike his brother he was! "I should have somewhere more long term worked out for you by morning."

I got Jack some clothes and showed him where the bathroom was. While he was showering I moved some things down from my room to Sherlocks'. Jack could stay in mine. Then I called Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

_*Hey everyone, just your friendly author here! I am thrilled beyond belief at how many people have read and subscribed. I'm begging you, though, I'd love to get some reviews, too. Even if you just want to tear apart my grammar mistakes, I'd be so happy to have feedback. Don't make me beg._

_There's only a couple more chapters left. I hope that you all enjoy them!*_

* * *

Meeting Jack Moriarty had a profound effect on not only the case, but on how I felt about myself. For the first time in nearly a year, I had proof, real proof, that my belief in Sherlock wasn't just hope and happenstance. I felt as though I was walking on clouds when I called Mycroft, Greg, and Molly to let them know what had happened and what I needed them to do.

To turn public opinion, I knew that I would need more than Jack's word that he was the brother of James Moriarty. I would need scientific proof as well. I asked Molly to take samples and test them against samples from Jim's body. He had been shot on top of St. Barts, so she had been the medical examiner and still had blood samples from his autopsy.

I asked Greg to use his police connections with his counterparts in Ireland to prove that Jack was who he said he was. A file was quickly sent back, which he forwarded to me, saying that there was indeed a man by the name of Jack Moriarty from Dublin, who was 28, the same as the man in my shower, missing for eleven years and presumed dead. The attacked photo looked like a younger and less troubled version of Jack. Also included were a set of prints, which I asked Molly to compare against Jacks.

I felt a little uncomfortable with what I needed from Mycroft, but it was probably the most important call I made that night. With former members of Moriarty's organization frequently going missing or turning up dead, I needed for jack to be placed in a safe house. I wouldn't be able to protect him at Baker Street, not with having regular hours at the clinic. Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful, ingenious woman, but I knew that she would prove to be little more than an annoyance to anyone who wanted to get to Jack. Mycroft agreed to have someone pick him up from my flat early the next afternoon, so that Molly would have a chance to take DNA samples and prints in the morning.

Last of all, I called Sara to tell her I wouldn't be able to work the following day. I lied, saying that Mrs. Hudson was ill and needed someone to look after her for a day or two. Luckily, she didn't question me and even offered to take me off the schedule for Friday, as well. I told her that it wasn't necessary, but thanked her anyway.

While I was on the phone with Sara, Jack finally came out of the bathroom. It was remarkable the difference a shower and a comb could make. His long hair and beard no longer seemed scraggly and unkempt, but deliberate and stylish. His face was bright, and he looked five years younger. I couldn't help but wonder what he would look like if he had a fresh haircut and a shave. Probably remarkably unchanged from the boy who had run away from his abusive brother and indifferent parents all those years ago.

While we ate a takeaway dinner from the Chinese down the road, Jack told me about his life these past eleven years. You would think the story of what it was like to be homeless would be one difficult to hear, but Jack painted a different tale. He talked about having real friends who cared for one another, even when they didn't have enough food to fill their own bellies. He spoke of people who gave him change every day, and had for years. It was obvious that he considered being homeless far superior to the life he had lived before. It was equally obvious that he was right.

One question plagued my mind through the meal. I finally built up the courage and asked him when the hour grew late.

"Why didn't you ever get off the streets?"

"What do you mean?" Jack asked sarcastically, as though the answer to my question were obvious.

"It's just, eleven years is a long time to be homeless, especially since you're clearly not crazy. There are people who like to help the homeless population, after all."

"I had to be so careful. I didn't want for Jim to ever catch wind of me. I never toed the line of the law, didn't want to have my name on paper. Everyone had heard of Jim. I knew that if I ever got a job or a flat, he would hear about it and start torturing me again."

It made since, in a sick sort of way. Choosing to live the hardest life a person could lead, all to avoid the torment of a sadistic older brother.

"His death was widely publicized last year," I said. "Why did you stay on the streets after that?"

"You think I'd believe anything in the papers about Jim? The man was a born liar. I figured that there was no way he was really dead. Honestly, I thought it was equal odds that Tiff was bringing me to him this afternoon, as to you. I'm glad I took the chance, though."

"So am I, Jack. So am I."

The next several weeks seemed to pass in a haze. I saw Jack off to the safe house with a light heart. Molly was able to confirm that he was, in fact, Jack Moriarty and DNA tests proved he was the brother of one James Moriarty, a.k.a. Richard Brooks. Molly was also able to prove that Sherlock's science was sound. I spoke to as many of our former clients as I could, who had previously said they didn't believe. I gave them what proof I had, and quite a few of them changed their minds, deciding to come forward when the time came.

I wrote a press release with all of the facts I had gathered. I did my best to make it about the facts and evidence, rather than about how I felt. I included Molly's testimony about Sherlock's scientific prowess, witness statements, lists of confessed criminals who were behind bars because of Sherlock. Most importantly, I included a list of nearly forty names, people who were willing to talk about how Sherlock had saved their lives, their fortunes, their livelihoods, their marriages, and their state of mind. I was very glad to be able to include Henry Knight's name on that list.

Lestrade wrote several pages that I included. He wrote about the influence that Sherlock had had on the Scotland Yard. He said that Sherlock had changed the way that the crime scene techs behaved on the scene, made them more observant. They had learned many of his evidence finding methods, and they had been used in numerous cases to bring murderers to justice.

The last several pages were what I considered to be the most important, though. Those pages I saved for Jack. I wrote about what it had been like for him, having James Moriarty for a brother. How he had run away and lived in hiding. The final page was Molly's report on Jack, the final nail in the coffin, if you will.

On March 31st, I posted my press release on my blog and sent it to every credible news source in the U.K.; Mycroft assured me that all of them would report on it.

On April 1st, all hell broke loose.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading this. I'm afraid to say that there will only be one more chapter after this. I don't know if I've ever had so much fun writing a story. I hope you all have enjoyed it half as much._

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I honestly don't know what I expected to happen when I sent out the press release that proved Sherlock's innocence, and that James Moriarty was real. I suppose that some small part of me hoped everybody would immediately believe, but I knew that would never happen. The public had had over a year to have the lies set into their minds, into how they saw the world. I hoped, more realistically, I think, for people to listen, to think, to take their time and reevaluate their opinions. I never expected what came.

On the morning of April 1st, I sat down in my sitting room with a cup of coffee and turned on the telly to watch the news. I had decided to wait until after the segment on my press release had aired to check the comments on my blog, figuring that, after a year without any updates, no one will have seen my post. I felt butterflies dance in my stomach while I waited for my segments to air and wondered what photo they would air. Hopefully not one with the deerstalker, Sherlock had hated that stupid hat.

Finally, a picture of Sherlock and I came up on the screen. Odd, where had they gotten a picture of us with Sherlock's arm around my shoulder? I didn't remember ever seeing that one pop up before.

"Dr. John Watson, former live-in assistant to Sherlock Holmes, has sent us 'proof' that his 'friend' Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud." You could practically taste the sarcasm in her tone. "The final several pages of his rather lengthy 'press release' are about a man claiming to be Jack Moriarty, the brother of James Moriarty. If you don't remember, James Moriarty, who had been proven to be an actor by the name of Richard Brooks, was hired by Sherlock Holmes to play the part of James Moriarty so that Holmes could act as though he were a genius detective, was murdered by Holmes before Holmes committed suicide last year.

"If you would like to know more about this story, Dr. Watson's full press release can be found on our website and on his blog."

I stared at the telly for the next two segments, completely aghast. I couldn't believe that they were mocking me like this. Maybe it was only the one news source, though. I pulled my netbook onto my lap and went to the website of a major newspaper.

On the sidebar, I saw a link titled "_Sherlock's Partner Refuses to See the Truth_." I quickly went to the website of another paper. "_Dr. Watson Tries to Diagnose the Truth Away_."

I rushed to the bathroom, my stomach churning. How could they all have decided to mock me rather than read what I had to say? Were they the fools, or was I? I vomited violently and crawled into the shower. I turned it on and sat on the floor under the steady stream of water, weeping. I belatedly realized that I was still in my pajamas, but didn't have the heart to care.

I heard my phone ring several times while I sat in the shower. I knew it was probably my friends calling to comfort me, but feared that it was reporters calling to ask mocking question. I decided to ignore the phone for the time being.

When the water ran cold I turned off the shower. I considered walking to my bedroom in my sopping wet clothes, but decided against it. I stripped, toweled myself dry, walked to my bedroom, got dressed, and then went back to my sitting room. I snatched my phone off of the coffee table and looked at the missed calls list. Two calls from Mycroft, one from Molly, one from Greg and, surprisingly, one from Harry. There were also fourteen missed calls from people I didn't know, probably the press. I decided to call Mycroft first. He answered after the second ring.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said.

"Hi, Mycroft," I said, seething. "Feel free to correct me on this, but I seem to recall you telling me that you would make sure the media took me seriously."

"No, you remember correctly," he said sarcastically.

"Then tell me, why the fuck are they mocking me? Have you seen what they're saying?"

"I have. I could only make sure they didn't take your press release as a hoax, I couldn't sway their opinion on it."

"I thought you were the government. What use are you if you can't make them report the truth?"

"People will read it, John. They are reading it. I'm guessing that you haven't checked your blog yet."

"What do you mean?"

"The internet is far more willing to take a well sourced, well written article seriously than the media. Last I checked, there were over 200 comments."

"200?" I asked shakily.

"Yes. That was three hours ago, before the news started airing, though."

"I have to go," I said and hung up on him. I turned my phone to silent, not wanting distraction. I rushed to my computer where it had fallen to the ground and typed in the URL for my blog with shaky hands.

568 comments and the post had only been up for eight hours. I read the first comment, made only twenty minutes after I had made the post. "I wish you hadn't done this – Anonymous." _That's weird, _I thought. The next was "I knew it, there's no way he could have been fake," and then, "I'm not sure what to think. Time to reread."

I poured over the comments, reading them all. Almost all of them were positive and supportive. They talked about spreading the truth, about getting the word out there. About halfway through the comments, someone posted "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Further on, "Moriarty was real" and below that "Richard Brooks was a lie." These words were repeated, over and over again. An idea sparked in me. I started a new post.

_Reading all of the comments on my article has been entirely uplifting for me. Thank you all for your support. To be honest with you all, when I sent out the press release last night I thought this fight was over, I never anticipated the disbelief of the media outlets. I thought that the year I have spent in research was all the work I would need to do._

_I have never been more wrong._

_I must ask for your help. I have a plan. We will spread the word guerilla style. Paper the streets with the words so many of you are saying: "I BELIEVE in Sherlock Holmes", "Moriarty was REAL", and "Richard Brook was a LIE." Tape them to walls, to lampposts. Post them in the comments on news websites. Post them on twitter, facebook, and tumblr. Spread the word. Spread the Truth._


	12. Epilogue

_Thank you all so much for reading this through to the end. It has been one of the most fabulously fun things for me to write, and I can't help but think that I'll write more Sherlock fanfic in the future. I hope that you all like the way that I've ended things._

* * *

It took nearly four months, but we did it. Four months of working during the day and papering the streets by night. Four months of meetings and late-night posts online. Four months of petitions and talking to people on the streets. Four months of some of the most exhaustingly difficult work I had ever done.

About two months in, I was asked to do an interview on a local radio morning chat show. I went and spoke about Sherlock, about Jack, about Molly and Greg's hard work. I was asked to do more interviews after that and went to them all.

Excruciatingly slowly, public opinion turned. What finally turned the tables was a surprise to me. A member of the jury from Moriarty's trial came forward saying that she'd been told her family would be killed if the jury didn't vote in Moriarty's favor. The following morning, several other members of the jury came forward saying the same. I decided on that day that our fight was over.

I threw a small party for Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Greg and Molly that night. They had been with me in the beginning and, though it took some time for Molly to come around, they had all been there with me through the fight and seen it to the end. While I had lost the greatest friend I will ever have, I had gained the love and friendship of these four people.

We drank late into the night, laughing and remembering our lost friend. We toasted to Sherlock and to one another. We told stories about when Sherlock had done something horribly awkward. We told each other things that we all wished we had said to him when he was still alive. At about two o'clock Greg loudly and slurredly proposed to Molly. I believe that I will never forget the grin that spread across his face when she said yes.

The next morning I had a head like you wouldn't believe and called in sick to work. I tried to not call in too often, but I was in no condition to see patients. It probably hadn't been a good idea to throw a party on a Tuesday, but I was glad that I had. Thinking back to Greg's proposal, I couldn't help but grin. It would be a hard road for them, with his divorce not having been finalized yet, but I was happy for them.

That afternoon, when my headache had cleared and light no longer seemed to pierce daggers to the back of my skull, I decided to go to Sherlock's grave one last time. The battle was won and I knew I wouldn't need to go back again.

I sat by his gravestone with a sigh.

"I know that you're just rotting bones, but when I'm here it feels like you're here with me. I know it's been a year and a half since you jumped, but sometimes it still feels like it happened yesterday.

"I wish I knew why you did it. There had to have been a reason. I suppose that I'll never know, without you here to tell me.

"It's been a long road, my friend, but we've done it. I've worked myself to the bone, I've faced suicide, and I've done everything that I could.

"The battle is won, Sherlock. Your name has been cleared. Across England, people know you for the hero you always were. The hero you are to me.

"We've done it. We've won."

A voice came from behind me. A voice I had thought I would never hear again. A voice so deep it seemed to seep into the very marrow of my bones. A voice so impossibly rich with warmth and, yes, love that I had never been able to help but shudder with pleasure on hearing it.

"I know, John, and I thank you."


End file.
